Hunted
by thedragonaunt
Summary: This one-shot contains SERIOUS SPOILERS for the Sherlock Special - The Abominable Bride. If you have NOT seen it, DO NOT READ THIS. Rated M for strong language and certain references. Some people may find the content upsetting. (I certainly did.)


**This is the second of a series of one-shots inspired by the Sherlock Special, and a sequel to 'Lost'.**

 **It contains SERIOUS SPOILERS for the Sherlock Special – The Abominable Bride. If you haven't seen TAB, don't read this.**

 **It contains references to drug abuse and the symptoms of withdrawal.**

 **It also contains some strong language.**

 **Hunted**

 **by**

 **thedragonaunt**

It felt as though he'd been lurking in this fetid alleyway - that seemed to double as the local public latrine - for hours. Huddled in his Belstaff and scarf, he was shivering violently – and not just from the cold, though he felt chilled to the bone. He ached in every muscle, every joint.

Sherlock looked at his watch. Half an hour gone! Where the hell was Wiggins? That weaselly little bastard better get here soon!

He leaned on the rough brick wall and rested his forehead against the cold, hard masonry. His mind was racing, randomly. Thoughts burst like supernovae in his brain but he couldn't pin them down. Images flashed across his internal video screen but someone else was operating the remote control.

'Control, control, control!' he hissed, pressing his gloved fingertips to his temples and squeezing his eyes tight shut. How had it come to this, reduced to skulking in this mugger's paradise in the arse end of the back of beyond? He'd be lucky to get out alive.

What had he ever done to get saddled with the pseudo-parents from Hell - Mycroft with his God Complex and Molly Bloody Hooper – the Mother Teresa of the Mortuary? This was their doing! Why couldn't they just leave him alone to get on with his life? Damn them both to hell!

He was _so_ angry with Molly for siding with Mycroft. Bad enough that his brother insisted on clucking round him like a mother hen – God damn it, wasn't he a grown man? When would Nanny Mycroft cut those apron strings? – now his pathologist was in on the act!

The sniffer dog was obviously her idea. Using a retired dog - no longer on active service but whose skills were no less sharp - to keep it all 'off the record'? Lestrade would never have agreed to that. The scheme had 'Molly Hooper' written all over it. And who else knew the location of all his boltholes? He'd shared that information with her so that he could use them as drop boxes and she could be the go-between, during his two year 'absence'. If only he'd known that one day she would use that knowledge against him!

Well, damn them! As fast as they cleaned out his secret supplies, he would find new and even less likely places to stash more. And he would never, ever tell another living soul the locations! Not even if his very life depended on it…

John and Mary were obviously spying on him but, fortunately, they had other things on their minds at the moment - namely, the imminent birth of Baby Watson – so they couldn't watch him every minute of every day.

As long as he stayed under the radar - maintaining a constant background buzz – John would be none the wiser. For a doctor, he was far too trusting but then he didn't have much experience in this particular field. Mary, though – she was a different kettle of fish, altogether. She'd always been able to tell when he was fibbing. He had to be really careful around her but the effort of keeping up appearances was taking its toll.

And, even with carefully controlled usage, his stocks had run perilously low. He needed to replenish – urgently.

The whole operation had been reminiscent of a medieval battle campaign, culminating in a siege. Waging a war of stealth against the mighty intellect of the world's only Consulting Detective was no easy task. One had to get inside his head and second guess his every strategy. But they had a superior mind on their side.

Mycroft had taken steps to warn off every supplier that Sherlock had ever dealt with in the whole of London and Team Molcroft had successfully removed his stock piles from all known bolt holes. He had quite a stash, secreted away at 221B - under floor boards, inside defunct drainage pipes and behind a false wall under the attic eaves - but getting to that would have involved a direct confrontation which might just tip him over the precarious edge. Molly would avoid that at all costs.

However, at the rate he was using, his Baker Street stash could not last for ever. Cutting off his supply was the only way to drive him out into the open. And they knew he would be getting pretty desperate by now.

Wiggins was his last resort…

 _But he had already been taken care of._

' _I don't know, Dr Hooper,' Wiggins whined, cringing like a whipped dog. 'Mr 'Olmes 'as bin good ta me…'_

' _Yes, Billy, and now you can repay him by helping me,' Molly insisted. 'He trusts you, Billy.'_

' _No' after this, 'e won't!' the ragged little man protested._

 _Molly took a step closer to Sherlock's dishevelled side-kick and Wiggins tensed, apprehensively. She might not be very big, this lady doctor, but he had seen her whack the great Sherlock Holmes round the face – and he'd just taken it! She clearly warranted respect._

' _Billy, you are the only person who can do this,' Molly insisted, fixing him with a beseeching gaze. 'Sherlock is not…he's not thinking straight. What he's doing is very bad for him.'_

 _Wiggins had to agree. He'd seen so many go down this spiral path before. It was not going to end well. And this lady doctor, well, she obviously cared a lot about Mr Holmes. He heaved a sigh of resignation._

' _Oh, alright,' he capitulated._

'Mr 'Olmes?'

Sherlock's head jerked up and his eyes gleamed with reflected light from the shop front neon signs on the seedy High Street. He reached out and grabbed the scruffy little man by the lapels of his threadbare overcoat.

'Where the hell have you been?' he hissed.

'I'm sorry, Mr 'Olmes!' Wiggins yelped. 'I thought I was bein' followed! I 'ad ta take a detour!'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Sherlock sneered, pushing the man away from him and looking down on him with disdain. 'Why would anyone follow you? You must be paranoid.'

'Well, I've never carried this much, all at once. It's enough to make anyone paranoid!' the hapless go-between protested.

But Sherlock was not interested in hearing Wiggins' excuses. He held out his hand and shook it, impatiently.

'Give it to me, then,' he demanded.

Billy Wiggins reached into his inside pocket and took out a package of quite substantial size. Sherlock snatched it off him and gauged the weight in his hand. It felt about right.

'It had better be good quality,' he growled.

'You can test if you like,' Billy retorted.

'Like I have my testing kit with me,' Sherlock snapped back. 'But rest assured, I will do just that when I get home so, if it's anything less than top quality, you will answer to me.'

'As if I would ever try to put one past you, Mr 'Olmes!' Wiggins exclaimed, looking around, nervously. He just wanted Sherlock to give him the dosh so he could get the hell out of there.

Sherlock reached into his own breast pocket and took out a fat wad of notes, still in their bank wraps.

'A monkey, right?' he said.

'Yeah, and the rest,' Wiggins replied, swiping the wad from his hand and stepping back…

The dark alleyway was suddenly flooded with light from both directions and, as Sherlock held up a hand to shade his eyes from the intense glare, a familiar voice – right behind him – said,

'Old habits die hard, eh, Sherlock? Turn around and put your hands flat on the wall.'

Sherlock closed his eyes, resignedly, and did as he was told.

'What the hell are you doing here, Lestrade?' he grunted.

'Just giving the Drug Squad the benefit of my insider knowledge,' the DI - and Sherlock's long-time friend - replied, chirpily.

'Before I search you, please tell me if you have anything sharp in any of your pockets or anywhere at all on your person,' said a voice Sherlock did not recognise.

'No, I do not,' he replied and felt the hands of the Drug Squad officer conduct a very thorough body search, removing every item he had in his pockets and dropping them into an evidence bag held by another officer, before pulling both his arms behind his back and cuffing his wrists together.

 _So Wiggins was right_ , he thought, wryly, _he was being followed_. Sherlock gave a sardonic grin as the arresting officer spun him around to face his captors. Lestrade met his gaze. He wasn't grinning.

'Sherlock Holmes, I am arresting you on suspicion of possession of Class A substances,' the Drug Squad officer chanted. 'You have the right to remain silent but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention something that you later rely on in court.

'Thank you, Mr Wiggins,' said Lestrade.

Sherlock glanced sideways at his erstwhile dealer…and looked again. Wiggins was standing, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets. Not searched, not cuffed, not cautioned. _Not_ under arrest.

'Sorry, Mr 'Olmes,' muttered Wiggins, reaching out to place the £5000 wad of cash into the open hand of Scotland Yard's finest DI.

'What the fuck?' Sherlock exclaimed but the question was rhetorical. He knew exactly what was going on. He heaved a sigh of submission as he was frog-marched away and bundled into the back of a squad car.

ooOoo

 **A/N: 'A monkey' is bookies' slang for £500.**


End file.
